


Ten Positive Touches

by HazelDomain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, No Smut, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7421059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It might be his imagination, but Dean thinks Cas might be getting a little more.... handsy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ten Positive Touches

One.  

 

“Hand me the salt rounds, will you?”

Dean’s loading the arsenal, there’s a half-dozen ghosts in this asylum at _least_ and he’s going in with enough firepower to take three times that.

Castiel fishes a handful of rounds out of the box, and Dean extends his hand without looking. He’s expecting Cas to drop the rounds into his waiting palm, like Sam would do, like Cas would _usually_ do, but he doesn’t. Instead, Cas takes Dean’s hand in his own, cradling it with his left while pressing the rounds gently into Dean’s palm with his right.

And then he just kinda, _holds_ him there, long enough that Dean glances over and sees Castiel looking at him meaningfully.

“Uh… thanks, Cas. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

Cas lets him go.    

 

Two.

 

Dean hits the wall with a ragged _crack_ he’s come to recognize as a breaking rib. Pain flares through his chest and he can’t breathe, but he already knows Sam’s out of ammo and needs cover while he reloads. He twists as he falls to the ground, landing on his good side, already leveling the shotgun despite his body’s protests.

The gun goes off with a bang, the ghost vaporizes, and Sam cocks his gun. Dean lets himself exhale, spots dancing across his vision as the halves of his broken rib grind together.

“Cas! Little help here?”

“Of course, Dean,” the angel says from an inch away, and then Castiel’s hand is on his chest, not pressing, just holding steady, and he’s _warm._

The bone tingles as it knits itself back together, good as new, not even a scar.

“Thanks, buddy,” Dean says, but Castiel isn’t done. He frowns as his hand travels across Dean’s chest, healing contusions and scrapes Dean hadn’t even noticed.

“Guys?” Sam shouts, and Dean pulls away from Castiel’s hands. He’s got ghosts to kill.

 

Three.

 

The fire’s huge. In retrospect, probably too big for the basement of an abandoned asylum, but no way in hell they were carting twenty-five decaying corpses up three flights of stairs.

 _Haunted_ stairs.

Fuck that shit.

So they burn the bodies in a concrete corner of the basement and hope that the soggy floorboards above them are wet enough to survive the meager heat of the burning corpses. The corpses are also soggy, they need a lot of accelerant, and even still, they burn slow.

Sam and Dean stand at the edge of the pile, watching damp clothes slowly burning into ash. Cas stands next to Dean and after a moment, he raises his hand and claps the hunter on the shoulder. Light, like he’s seen the gesture but he isn’t sure how it’s done.

“They’ve moved on,” Castiel confirms, and they start the process of packing up their gear.

 

Four.

 

“ _Another_ one?” Dean asks. “We’ve been here ten minutes.”

Sam shrugs.

“Police scanner says they’ve got three bodies. Sounds like a ghoul.”

“What the fuck kind of town has a haunted asylum _and_ a ghoul infestation?”

“Apparently, this one,” Sam says noncommittally, and picks his jacket up from where he’d dropped it. Dean had been halfway through unlacing his boots and now he groaned and began re-lacing them. Job’s a job.

“Cas, you good to go?”

The angel doesn’t answer. Dean glances around the room, trying to find what corner he’d tucked himself into.

“Cas?”

Castiel re-appears with an airy rustle, a pair of styrofoam cups in his hands. He hands one to Sam and then crosses the room and sits on the bed next to Dean. He’s close enough that their knees brush when Dean takes the cup.

It’s coffee, delicious coffee, not burned or instant or from a gas station, and there’s cream in it.

It’s almost good enough to make up for having two jobs in one day. Dean sips it leisurely and ignores the feeling of Cas’s thigh pressed against his.

 

Five.  

 

It’s not a ghoul. Whatever this thing is, it’s sucking it’s victims dry, latching onto any exposed skin and leaving a serrated, circular bite mark.

It takes the three ‘agents’ six whole minutes to gain access to the medical examiner’s office, where Sam performs the preliminary examination and the other two speculate. The corpse is a desiccated husk, whatever killed them sucked them dry as a bone- literally _to_ the bone. Even the marrow is dusty and dead.

“Definitely our kind of case,” Dean concludes when the examination reveals no other marks or missing parts. He discards his face shield and pulls his apron over his head, flipping his collar as he does.

A moment later Cas’s hands are at his throat, straightening his shirt and smoothing it back into place. Castiel’s eyes are narrowed, focused, and Dean glances at Sam. Sam shrugs.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean murmurs. Castiel looks up at him, giving him that same intense stare. Dean swallows.

“Anybody else want lunch?”

 

Six.

 

Dean’s burger is too thick by far, but he is not deterred. He attacks at an angle, working his way through the salty, greasy sandwich. Sam is talking about lampreys. Castiel is watching him chew. It’s a little odd.

“You want a bite?” he offers, holding it out. Castiel declines and Dean shrugs, going back to eating.

He finishes off the last bit and Cas leans forward, before Dean can react, and brushes a smear of ketchup from the side of his mouth. His fingertips linger, his blue eyes searching Dean’s face for some reaction. The pad of his thumb strokes Dean’s mouth again, gentle. The world narrows to the two of them.

Sam clears his throat. Cas leans back. Dean mumbles a healfhearted ‘thanks.’

 

Seven.  

 

Whatever it is, it’s travelling through the sewers and that means a fun and exciting afternoon tramping through stinky old OSHA violations. Dean leads the way, Cas following him a little too close and Sam heading up the rear with a worn old map.

“It should be right around here somewhere,” Sam says, at exactly the moment that half a dozen of the damn things come bursting out of a side pipe. They smack right into the middle of Dean’s chest, knocking him backwards in their mad dash for freedom.

Dean stumbles and almost goes down, but Cas is there, too close as usual, catching him and holding him up with the same effort that Dean would use on a squirming kitten. He rights Dean quickly but his hands stay on the hunter’s shoulders, steadying him, like he doesn’t want to let go.

Dean doesn’t say thanks. He’s too focused on that feeling, the feeling of Cas’s hands, and has Cas been touching him more often lately?

He’s still trying to figure out the answer when another burst of lampreys comes hurling out of the side pipe and Sam shouts at him to get his shit together. Cas’s hands drop.

 

Eight.

 

The things got some kind of centralized brain system, sending out little round-jawed monsters to bring food back to the giant squishy motherbrain. Sam thinks it’s amazing, Dean mostly wonders if it’s flammable. He unloads a clip into it, just to see what’ll happen, and the answer is; not much.

Well, it doesn’t _hurt_ the thing much. It does manage to piss it off and the three of them spend a couple minutes fighting off another wave of flying writhing twisty things. One of them gets up Dean’s pant leg and latches its teeth onto the back of his knee. He pounds at it with his fists, but it’s not susceptible to shock trauma because it just keeps sucking. It’s awful, like he’s a juice box some kid is imploding with a straw.

Cas disintegrates the thing with a flash of yellow light and Dean’s never been so grateful to have the angel heal him; he almost doesn’t notice the way Cas’s hands linger.

Almost.  

 

Nine.

 

The question of “can lamprey brains be killed with fire” turns out to be an enthusiastic “yes” because Dean jabs a burning stick into it and the damn thing pulls a _Jaws,_ chunks of goo and flesh flying everywhere. For the second time that day, it smells just absolutely fucking _awful_.

They strip out of their outer layers, stuffing the soiled clothes into a trash bag because Dean refuses to let that shit get anywhere near baby’s upholstery.

By the time they get back to the motel it’s dark, they’re hungry, and Dean’s so done there could be a witch in the parking lot flipping him the bird and he would have dealt with it in the morning.

Sam, who hadn’t been the one to stab lamprey-brain and was, for the most part, spared the fallout, takes the trash bag and heads to the laundromat with his laptop and eight pounds of quarters. Dean trudges into the room, trying not to touch anything he doesn’t absolutely _need_ to. He can’t get the feeling of the goo off his hands.

Cas vanishes and reappears a moment later with a soda and a candy bar.

“You should eat something,” Castiel says solemnly. “The endorphins from the fight are wearing off. You could crash.”

“I’m not touching anything until I’ve had a shower, Cas, my hands are gross.”

Dean pulls at his Henley with the tips of his fingers, discarding it on the floor as he walks toward the bathroom. It’s glowing with an ethereal white light and he’s going to stand under the water until his skin falls off.

Castiel catches his shoulder and when Dean looks back, the angel is holding a segment of chocolate between two fingertips.

“Eat,” Castiel orders, and Dean obediently takes it, feeling a little surreal.

“Cas? Have you been…. Touching me more? Lately?”

Castiel nods proudly.

“I’ve been reading about human physiology and the care and feeding of human vessels. I found an article whose author believed very strongly that humans required ten instances of positive physical contact per day, in order to remain healthy.” He frowns. “I do not believe you were getting anywhere near that number.”

“No, I was not,” Dean agrees, and he’s looking at Cas all funny, like the light from the bathroom is giving him a halo or like he’s glowing or some shit-

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Would you… would you kiss me?”  

Castiel smiles.

 

 

Ten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? Two fluffy spnkink_meme fills in a row? 
> 
> "Who are you?!?" you demand. "What have you done with Hazel?"  
> "It's me," I insist, "I'm just in a fluffy mood."  
> "You're _lying,_ " you hiss, raising your weapon. "The real Hazel would _never_ go this long without posting a graphic noncon. You're a fake."  
>  "No, no, it's me!" I shout, scurrying to take cover behind my desk. "I'll prove it just please, please, give me time!"  
> Your eyes narrow, but you stay your hand. Gasping, my hands fly across the keyboard.  
> I'm running out of time.


End file.
